the mourning

The mourning


I grief for my tiny house far from tourist crowds

I was happy there walking in the woods with my dog.

They tell me I’m too old to live there alone

How would they know?

Old age is brutal.

People think they know what is best for me.

I will go back to Norway find a plot near my mother´s grave

Two skeletal hands are meeting, and the dreams will go on.

The people I loved will be there in the times to come.

Yes, I feel it is time to go home.


◄ a moment in time

love unseen ►


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Tom Harding

Fri 30th Apr 2021 20:19


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Stephen Gospage

Fri 30th Apr 2021 17:04

This is a genuinely moving poem, Jan. I wish you well.

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M.C. Newberry

Fri 30th Apr 2021 16:05

Life seems a circular thing in so many ways. Not least with the
helplessness of infancy eventually reaching the dependency (to a
greater or lesser extent) of old age. Some are lucky to remain
independent until the last - and long may that be so. Adaptability
seems the measured means to the better end in my own opinion.
In the meantime, on a direct level, I can think of worse places for someone to spend their later years than Norway.

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